


An Awkward Sort of Affair

by Allychik6



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23053828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allychik6/pseuds/Allychik6
Summary: Eames had a cat once that reminded him of Arthur. His name was Cornelius, except that Eames always called him Corny, and Corny never really seemed to like him that much. Cornelius was a beautiful, long furred cat, all creams and whites. Very particular about his appearance. And he had this way of looking at Eames that was the exact same expression Arthur had. He’d raise his tail the same way that Arthur would raise his eyebrow, just the one eyebrow. There was even something about Arthur’s walk that was cat-like. When he was pissed, Eames was always worried that Arthur might pee in his shoes.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Kudos: 85





	An Awkward Sort of Affair

Eames had a cat once that reminded him of Arthur. His name was Cornelius, except that Eames always called him Corny, and Corny never really seemed to like him that much. Cornelius was a beautiful, long furred cat, all creams and whites. Very particular about his appearance. And he had this way of looking at Eames that was the exact same expression Arthur had. He’d raise his tail the same way that Arthur would raise his eyebrow, just the one eyebrow. There was even something about Arthur’s walk that was cat-like. When he was pissed, Eames was always worried that Arthur might pee in his shoes.

But Eames had always liked it when Cornelius would jump up onto the sofa while he watched bad telly. He’d stretch out on his back, head pressed against Eames’s thigh, and Eames would sink his fingers into the luxurious hair.

Eames wasn’t at all surprised when Cornelius ran away. And it was, of course, a complete coincidence that Eames has never had another pet cat. 

*  


Arthur went back to his apartment and systematically removed every trace of Eames from the carpet stains to the knick knacks to the books. He even repaired the scratches on the furniture. He started with the obvious things, the odds and ends that Eames had brought over but never remembered to take back: the single paint brush still crusted over with red paint from when he had decided to refinish that chair, the green and blue argyle sock crammed underneath the couch cushion, the coffee table book from the Louvre. Then he moved on to the gifts, the coffee mug from the Bahamas with its sand and palm leaves, the paper charms from Japan with the elegant calligraphy, the jar of sand from South Africa. There were a lot of gifts; Eames bought him something every time he left the city.

Arthur wrapped each item as if it were about to shatter in his hands, he wrapped them all carefully with newspaper and memories, starting with the Burberry tie clip from that job in Iowa. Eames had appeared dripping wet at his front door with his luggage sitting in that puddle that formed during every rain because of a leak in the hallway ceiling. He’d been smiling, oblivious to the weather, with the silly thing cupped in both hands. Of course Arthur had invited him in. Of course he had dripped water all over the floor. Of course he had looked awkward and adorable in Arthur’s clothes.

Arthur quickly covered that with newspaper and dropped it in the bottom of the box.

It was a long night. Arthur scrubbed and moved and cleaned and hid away every trace of Eames. He moved the furniture so that, now, when he sat, instead of looking at the bare wall where the framed poster used to hang, he would look out the window. He traded the end table for the nightstand in part because they were so similar and because the lamp in his room would cover up the coffee cup ring that wouldn’t quite come out.

Arthur saved the worst of it for last, for when he was already too raw and hollow to feel anything other than numb. It was the miniature of the Mona Lisa that Eames had painstakingly painted for him.

It had been a very awkward sort of inside joke, mostly because Eames and Arthur were always sort of very awkward. It started when Eames learned that in all the time that Arthur had lived in Paris, in all the visits they had made to the Louvre, Arthur had never seen the Mona Lisa. Personally, Arthur never understood all the hype. It was a nice smile, but nothing amazing. Eames explained that it was the sort of smile Arthur always wore post coital. Arthur still didn’t get it.

But one night, when they’d been drinking champagne over at Eames’s place in celebration of nothing at all, Eames had unveiled his miniature masterpiece. Arthur had not been impressed, not until, on the lower right side, almost underneath the frame, he spotted the dark red die tucked underneath her hand. It was the stupidest detail, something that didn’t even make sense, but Arthur loved it instantly.< /p>  
He didn’t cry as he put the miniature in the top of the box, didn’t cry when he put all of the boxes in his storage locker outside of Paris, and he didn’t cry when he came back to an empty apartment.

He was 24 years old; he was used to it.

*  


The first time Arthur buried someone, he was thirteen and he buried both of his parents. He remembered his aunt sitting in the middle of his father’s office, surrounded by piles of books and papers. Arthur’s father had been sort of a pack rat when it came to his research. He had saved every paper he had written since high school. And quite a few of Arthur’s school things to boot

His aunt’s whole body heaved with the sobs. Arthur took the letter opener from her hand and put it in the box.

Eames wasn’t dead, but Arthur buried him all the same.

  


***  


It was possibly the stupidest fight Eames had ever had with someone, and he’d once brawled over a used toothpick. It was about a drawer, a drawer that Eames had cleaned out just for Arthur, a drawer that Arthur, apparently, didn’t want. He had taken one look at the drawer and then looked at Eames. “I’m sorry. I can’t. Cobb might need me." And Eames had followed that statement with the completely witty response of “So, that’s it then?” which was really more of a statement than a question. And Arthur had followed it in his no-nonsense-here-Eames monotone, “I guess it is.”

And then Arthur walked out, and Eames proceeded to get pissed.

After he got pissed, he picked up some sort of club like object, a baseball bat or a golf club or maybe it was a chair leg, he really wasn’t sure--due to the truly impressive amounts of vodka. Eames destroyed everything in his apartment. Smashed the plates to little bits, tore holes in the mattress, set his clothes on fire. When he was no longer drunk (and only a little bit hungover) he realized that the last part may have been overkill, but by then the damage was done and all he could really do was leave a very large pile of cash in front of the door for his landlord.

Eames left Paris almost immediately after. It wasn’t like he had anything to stick around for.

He went to Mombasa, to Yusuf. Because he and Yusuf were old school friends, and Yusuf always had the best drugs. The flight was long, 21 hours with stops, and Eames thought that if he had to listen to that lady play her ridiculous French pop at such a decibel for one more minute he was going to knock her out. Arthur would have recognized the band, and he would have informed Eames of all the reasons why it was a terrible band. And then Arthur would have proceeded to turn up his own music, probably an Edith Piaf playlist, at the end of listening to he would then proceed to explain to Eames, again, why records were better than CDs or, God forbid, spotify.

And secretly, Eames liked Edith Piaf. But he would never, in a million years, tell Arthur that, it was too much fun to see him get worked up.

Of course, that generally backfired on Eames because then Arthur would fidget in his seat, shifting delicately back and forth. It always made Eames want to reach out and put a hand on Arthur or run one finger just underneath the cuff of his sleeve. Because that would make Arthur shift but for very different reasons.

Twenty one hours gave Eames a lot of time to think about Arthur. He thought about the good things, the teasing Arthur in public to the point where Arthur would grab him (by the tie, by the sleeve, and once by slipping his fingers in-between the buttons of his shirt) and haul him off to the nearest semi-private place in order to have his wicked way with Eames. And Arthur could be very wicked when he wanted. Eames thought about laying in bed next to Arthur and wanting desperately to stay the whole night and being completely unsure if Arthur wanted him to or not. After all, whenever he invited Arthur back to his place, Arthur was always gone by morning.

Arthur was a very simple man, the kind of person who knew what he wanted, what he was good at, what he needed to do. But Eames could never quite figure out where he stood with Arthur. It was absolutely infuriating. 

When Eames arrived in Mombasa, he had decided fuck Arthur. Not literally of course, although he rather liked fucking Arthur, he had already done that. If Arthur wanted to have his head so far up his ass that he couldn’t see a good thing when it was right in front of him, well, then, Eames really didn’t want to be involved with that kind of person.

Yusuf welcomed him in without a single question, and the two of them spent a whole week getting higher than kites in his living room.

*  


Eames could remember the first time he ever brought a boy home. He was nine, and he remembered feeling like it was a really big deal even though they were just going to play Knights in the backyard. Eames always had the best swords. His mother had smiled and given them both cookies. And when his father came home from work, he had looked down his nose at where Eames was trying to wrestle his friend and told Eames that was no way to behave.

His father’s words became the motto he lived by, even with Arthur.

Especially with Arthur.

***  


Arthur stubbed his toe the next morning on the end table he had moved into his bedroom. He also walked into the corner of the kitchen table, hitting a bruise that he’d received doing exactly the same thing the night before when getting a drink of water. He cursed Eames, loudly, and reached for the coffee. From then on, it was business as usual.

There was a large article on the upcoming American elections which Arthur read because he thought it might prove to be important later but he really didn’t have any interest in it. He finished his coffee and pain au chocolat in the middle of reading the arts section, but that was almost never something he needed to know, so he put the paper down and reached for his shoes. He grabbed his scarf and coat and was out the door.

Whenever Arthur was home, he liked to walk through the city. He liked to see what had changed and to watch the people around him and give himself imaginary missions. Today he was trying to guess things about the people he saw, to figure out some small part of their life.

The woman in the grey scarf he could see through the window at a nearby café was slowly swaying her foot and occasionally glancing at the door. A little impatient, but not irritated yet, she must have been waiting for a habitually tardy person. The beggar on the street corner was a little more difficult. She had bloodshot eyes, and upon closer inspection the picture in her hands was printed on white 9 by 11 paper, something copied. Not a beggar looking to help out her family, but someone jonesing for another hit. Arthur didn’t give her any money when he brushed by. The tourists he identified with a single glance, the shorts and obnoxiously casual shirts were too much of a giveaway. A second glance convinced him that the tummy pack was the worst invention ever. Two pickpockets came running around the corner. The first, a young boy about eight, bumped into Mr. Tummy Pack. The girl, presumably his older sister, slowed and apologized. Arthur didn’t try to figure out which one of them had the wallet. He’d seen them work before; they were both good.

Arthur might never have looked at them close enough to notice the theft if Eames hadn’t pointed them out. He explained the set up and pointed out the exact moment money changed hands. He had leaned in close to whisper the words in Arthur’s ear, one hand slowly creeping around his waist and his breath brushing alluringly across the shell of his ear. Arthur grabbed Eames hand just as he turned towards Eames, his lips brushing against Eames’s cheek. “I’m not some American tourist you can impress with petty slight of hand.” Eames laughed, and they continued on their walk.

Arthur’s phone rang. “Cobb?” He said neutrally.

“We have a job.”

“Oh thank God.”

*  


Arthur always thought of his life in terms of before and after. Things were segmented out in his mind in little boxes all arranged in neat little rows. Before he joined the military, after he met Mal. Before the PASIV, after Mal’s death. Before leaving the army, after Cobb’s exile from the country. He kept all of those memories neatly ordered and meticulously labeled

All of that changed with Eames. All those neat little boxes dumped out into two messy piles: before Eames and after Eames.

He tried not to dwell on it.

***  


Afterwards, the first time Arthur and Eames worked together, it was an utter disaster. For both of them. They nearly ruined the job, mostly because they destroyed the morale of the rest of the team. Except for Cobb, but then Cobb was pretty much crazy to begin with. The job was simple enough, just a Is-my-wife-cheating-on-me scenario from a man with entirely too much money. Arthur hated the frivolous jobs.

Perhaps if the architect had not been quite so new to the business, then it might not have been so bad. Not to place all the blame on the poor guy, but the details were too important to get wrong which meant there was a lot of practicing to be done. And that was where things went wrong.

Eames ended almost every comment by saying something like “don’t you remember, Arthur” or “can’t you show him, Arthur?” as if Eames had far more important things to do than to instruct silly newbies. And while Arthur didn’t mind being the one to explain or to demonstrate, it was the bored, dismissive tone that Eames used that made Arthur want to lose control. There were several instances where Arthur wanted nothing more to punch Eames, in the face, in the stomach, somewhere painful, and demand he develop an interest. Except that would lead to a screaming match that would disintegrate into a brawl which would end in one of them ravaging the other’s mouth. And Arthur really wasn’t interested in going down that road. Again.

And when Arthur would look up after having one of those little fantasies, Eames would be staring right at him, a tick at the corner of his eye and his fist clenched. For a moment, Arthur would consider the punch again, he thought about taking off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, and loosening his tie. He thought about saying something obnoxious, about forcing Eames to start the fight. He thought about doing exactly what Eames told him to.

But he’d already buried Eames.

He shot himself in the head.

Arthur was pulling out the needle before anyone fully realized what happened. Cobb didn’t ask when Arthur stormed out, and he didn’t say anything when moments later Eames did exactly the same thing. In fact, it is entirely possible that he didn’t realize anything was off until the architect reemerge shaking his head and muttering about unresolved sexual tension.

Eames had left the building and gone straight to the nearest bar in order to get shitface drunk. He might have also asked Yusuf for some of the” good stuff,” but Yusuf was two continents away and dealing with his little comatose people, so he had to settle for getting utterly plastered.

Arthur made his way to a martini bar several kilometers away. He had been prepared for this possible outcome and had checked out the bar in advance. It was exactly what he thought he needed, a quick fuck in the alley. He decidedly did not think about tattoos or the brush of stubble or the way Eames never seemed to be able to draw a full breath. 

***  


Things changed after the Fischer Job. Obvious things like the size of everyone’s bank accounts, like the fact that Cobb was officially retired (except for the odd job on the side) and that Yusuf had more business than he could handle. Shockingly though, the biggest change for Arthur was how he and Eames seemed to be almost civil towards one another.

Some things did not change despite everything. Like the fact that Arthur refused to work with anyone other than Cobb, and he was in high demand. Anyone who wanted to hire Arthur first had to find and convince Cobb. Then Cobb had to call Arthur and convince him. The word “favor” came up a lot in all of those conversations.

Ariadne went back to school. Her professors started telling her that she was incredibly creative with her designs but that the laws of physics were going to cause a few problems. Every other week she and Arthur would meet up for dinner or drinks or something. She would complain about the lack of vision of her professors; Arthur would bemoan his lack of guns. Sometimes one of Ariadne’s school friends would stumble over. They would giggle and twitter while Arthur and Ariadne exchanged secretive smiles before Arthur politely excused himself and Ariadne explained that he was very gay. Sometimes Arthur would come back. More often though he would watch from the bar as she laughed and think about just how young she looked. In those moments, Arthur hated that he’d been the one to teach her. He hated that her innocence had been completely stripped away, he hated that she loved it.

*  


It was one of those Friday night dinners, and Ariadne had picked a bar far away from campus. A little unusual, but then she had also been complaining about the number of professors she saw when out with him.

He should have known from the outside of the bar, but he had too much faith in Ariadne.

Inside it was one of those dark, smoky places that Arthur normally avoided (for oh, so many reasons, 1) the tables were grimy 2) the food questionable 3) the company seedy in nature…He could go on, but why depress himself needlessly?).

Eames was in the corner booth, tapping his fingers on the table and looking bored. Arthur was frozen. Although they were…was better really the word he wanted to use here? He had not prepared for this possibility, and his breath was sort of caught in his throat. Not that he would ever admit that if asked.

On second thought, this was exactly the sort of bar that Eames would inhabit. Was it so inconceivable that he would come to Paris? Arthur had to remind himself that it was awfully conceited of him to think that Eames was here for him or as the result of some scheme of Ariadne. It was much more likely that Eames had come for the art. Or a job. Or another man. There were millions of reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with Arthur.

Perhaps he had called up Ariadne and they had decided to meet for drinks. But then, why would Ariadne not tell him? Perhaps it was someone else then. Arthur had to mentally restrain himself from further speculation. If Eames wanted to date other people, then why shouldn’t he? Perhaps it was for a job. Perhaps it was simple coincidence. Arthur shook his head, trying desperately to get the thoughts out.

And then Eames looked up. For a moment he looked almost shocked, and then he shook his head too. Arthur crossed the remaining distance in the time it took for Eames to pick up his beer.

“She’s a little menace.” Eames took a long drink.

“And probably watching from somewhere.” Arthur sat down and gestured to the waitress.

She hustled over, all bright smiles and fake cheer. “What can I—”

“Diet Coke, double shot of rum.” Eames interrupted and ordered before Arthur could open his mouth. The girl gave him a tight smile and shuffled off.

“And what if I had wanted a gin and tonic.” Arthur objected. He had always hated it when Eames ordered for him, as if he were some pathetic woman.

“I doubt they carry your vintage.” Eames pointed out with a cocky grin, and Arthur scowled

She brought back the drink, and Arthur downed the shot. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Drink until she gets bored and shows herself?” Eames suggested and toasted Arthur with the remainder of his beer. “Do you remember that night we closed the bar in Romania?”

“I believe we were supposed to meet a client who never showed.” Arthur couldn’t help himself, he smiled at the memory.

“And there was that waitress who kept insisting we were the cutest thing she had seen since the birth of her nephew.”

“I still don’t think that is what she was saying. I still don’t believe you know a word of Romanian.” Arthur replied, scowling, but only a little.

“Truth, lies, they are all just words.” Eames finished the glass and gestured for another.

“Why do I think you are ahead of me?” Arthur asked quietly, the truth of the situation slowly dawning on him.

“Do you ever wonder what might have happened?” Eames asked, and Arthur could see the brightness in his eyes.

“Ariadne didn’t arrange this, did she?”  


“Maybe I just didn’t say no to her little plan.” Eames turned around. “She’s not as clever as she thinks she is.” He smiled at the waitress and then demanded, “Can I get that beer now?”

Arthur pulled out his wallet. “I think it is time for you to go home. Where are you staying?”

The waitress brought the beer and Eames snatched it away from her. “Thanks, darling.”

It was the nickname that snapped Arthur.

Darling.

How many times had Eames called him that? While he was making breakfast? While they were making love? Walking through Paris? Just to make Arthur crazy.

Thousands.

He stood up, yanked Eames out of his chair, and marched him out of the bar. The waitress was left staring at the 100 Euro bill Arthur had left her. He hailed a cab while Eames was babbling and mumbling and rambling on about absolutely nothing. It took him and the driver to push Eames into the back seat, and Arthur had to practically sit on him to keep him from leaping out of the cab.

Incidentally, it was much easier to get Eames up the three flights of stairs to Arthur’s apartment.

Eames was snoring even before he hit the couch, leaving Arthur to star at the pathetic mess that he was. He gave into the urge for just a few minutes and then began removing Eames shoes and pants. He also took off his watch, since Eames never slept in that. It was a short automated walk back to the bedroom where Arthur opened the top drawer in the nightstand and placed all of Eames things inside.

He sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the few things in the drawer. It was like the box. The one he had filled for his Aunt when his father died. Again, Arthur was putting in items that belonged to someone he had thought he had buried into a box. Would there ever be a time when he wouldn’t be putting people in boxes? And why couldn’t Eames stay in the box after Arthur put him there.

But Eames never did fit in a box. He shut the drawer angrily.

Slowly Arthur removed his own clothing, folding it all neatly and placing it in the dirty hamper inside of his closet. He shut the door quietly. He padded across the floor, paying very close attention to the way his feet touched the rug, to the feel of the fibers against his skin. He needed to put those memories away, and the only way to do that was to pay excruciating attention to the moment. He breathed deeply and felt the air fill his lungs.

And then he laid down on top of the blankets and stared at the ceiling.

It was a long, long night. And Arthur remembered. He remembered everything, all of the dates, the nights he spent at Eames, lying next to him not sure of how he was supposed to act. What was he supposed to do? It wasn’t like Arthur had ever even been in that—that situation before. Even now, with Eames passed out on the couch in the other room, he didn’t know what to do. Maybe he shouldn’t be sleeping? Maybe he should be…making tea?

Arthur then remembered something, something he had forgotten a long time ago. He sat up and pulled the drawer out of the nightstand. Taped on the inside of the drawer was Eames’ name. Years and years ago, so long ago that by the time Arthur was burying Eame he had forgotten. He’d done it when they were first…when they were first doing whatever it was that they did, he had set it aside. He had heard that people did those sorts of things.

And then Cobb, and everything had just spiraled completely out of control. It was from before Arthur had thought it would be easier if there were no people.

He looked up and Eames was standing in the doorway. “What are you doing?” He sounded exasperated and as if he had been watching Arthur for several minutes.

Arthur looked back in the drawer. Yes. He had once decided that everything would be easier without people. But, apparently, Arthur had not buried Eames quite as well as he thought he had.

For a long moment, Arthur didn’t say anything, and then he decided to ignore the question. “I have a drawer for you.”

“Oh.” Eames wasn’t sure what to say. ‘You have a drawer for me, but you didn’t want the one I had for you?’ ‘Why?’ ‘Moving a little faster than you used to.’ But what came out of his mouth was, “Well, I guess I had better start using it then.” He glanced between Arthur and the doorway. “Are we going to bed now?” He was almost afraid to mess this up again.

“Finally.” Arthur smiled and pulled back the blankets.

*  


The truth of it was, Eames had always wanted another cat, even after Cornelius had disappeared. And it certainly felt much better to sleep next to a warm body.

Even better that it was Arthur.


End file.
